Thursday, June 18, 2015

Artists

I don't think I have ever learned about an artist without eventually discovering that they are or were, by definition, "stubborn" about their work.
I understand that because, for the most part, people don't give a shit. And artists, ever more so from day to day, as things we perceive continue to accelerate, must try to conceive, to build, to make someone stop and look and stare and read what the artist has made in order to make it worthwhile for the viewer to stay awhile, possibly with: coffee, beer, soda, punch, popcorn, wine and cheese, sour batch kids, etc. Esoteric mini pancakes.
It's really hard to explain that to someone looking up from their complimentary grapes and Gouda, wishing only that a football game was on in front of them. It's also conceited, but possibly unavoidable. It's an expectant ego that manifests itself in the act of making, but broods pensively in presentation.
I've heard a lot of people describe artist by saying "they do what they love." That is bullshit. The most unnecessary pain that ails an artist is their art. It's not love. It is a cathartic expression of their belief that they need to continue what they are are doing, and fuck all, if it doesn't feel good to breakthrough to ecstasy and epiphany with what they eventually make. There is nothing I have discovered in this life, outside of possibly a good orgasm or a perfectly cooked scallop, that is better for connecting with humanity.
Well, except maybe music.
Artist's do not suffer. Well, they do suffer, but not constantly. They endure, despite health, social norms, financial situations, lack of modern comforts (both nearly essential and superfluous.)
A lot of them become famous after they die. It's because they never had an agent. This sucks, because an artist without an agent is usually a goldmine after they are dead.
I have no explanation for this, only examples:
Vincent Van Gogh is an easy one.
Henry Darger is a queasy one.